


what fire does not destroy

by LaughWhileCrying



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Demon Blood, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Sam Has Self-Esteem Issues, Sam-Centric, bsgc secret santa, sam and castiel being bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 20:49:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5512835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughWhileCrying/pseuds/LaughWhileCrying
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Addiction doesn't end after detox, and Sam's relationship with demon blood doesn't end at the panic room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what fire does not destroy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SweetSamOfMine (AudreeJo)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AudreeJo/gifts).



> For sunflowerchester for the BitterSamGirlClub Secrect Santa Exchange! Sorry this is so angsty, I don't know how this came about! The first draft of this was super dark and I thought: "you know, maybe this isn't the best for a christmas secret santa exchange." I have no idea when in canon this takes place - sometime before Sam jumps into the cage but post-"The Song Remains the Same." Or maybe it's completely AU. I don't even know.
> 
> Still, I hope you like it! Merry Christmas!

“They have been through the fire, and what fire does not destroy, it hardens.”

-Oscar Wilde,  _The Picture of Dorian Gray_

\------

_Well this is just_ great, Sam can’t help but think.

The slow, steady rhythm of Dean’s breathing is the only sound that Sam can hear from his place in the kitchen. The time on his phone reads 2:13 am, and he knows that he should be asleep (or at the very least, pulling his weight in research), but he just can’t.

 He’s tried for hours already, shifting and tossing and turning on the misshapen couch that’s probably older than Bobby, but to no avail. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t get comfortable. He’s too restless, wound-up. There’s a current under his skin, a tremble in his fingers that he can’t stop. (God, why can’t he get it to _stop_?)

At first, Sam naїvely believed that he was cold and forced himself up from his makeshift bed, head spinning and knees weak, to go find another blanket. He hadn’t made it too far before his legs nearly collapsed under him. He scoffed and pushed himself back up, steadfastly ignoring the ringing in his ears. He quickly found a blanket and wrapped himself up. He returned to bed, confident that now he would be able to sleep.

Except for the part where that didn’t happen. At all.

No, because as soon as he lay back down, every nerve ending in his body suddenly lit in a fiery blaze. The discomfort in his fingers became a constant hum, the ringing in his ears became screaming, and the light tremble became a vibration. He could feel everything – the itchy wool of the blanket he’d grabbed was sandpaper against exposed skin. Every lump and spring in the couch was a nail and a rock in his back, digging in more each time he moved. Dean was none the wiser (and Lord knew where Bobby even was) to his brother’s dilemma as he rolled over onto his stomach and latched onto the pillow Sam had dropped.

Sam shot up, confused and still half-asleep. He knew that he wasn’t going to be able to sleep on his own, but he didn’t understand: what is going on? He told himself ( _lied to himself_ , a voice sneered in his head), over and over as he trod to the kitchen on lead feet to look through Bobby’s stash of sleeping pills, that he didn’t know this. These symptoms were foreign to him.

He’d never felt this way before in his life.

But now, sitting with his back against Bobby’s crumbling cabinets, the hard, freezing tile beneath his feet, and the bottle of Knock-Out in his fist, he knows he can’t fool himself. He knows this like he would know an old friend. He brings a shaking hand up to his face; every tendon is visible in the soft moonlight that streams from the uncovered window above. The trembling is getting worse with each passing second and Sam knows just what will get it to still.

Blood.

He shudders out a breath and throws his head between his knees. An image flashes in his mind with the admission: thick, dark red rivers against pale skin, warm and wet in his mouth as he lets it flow over his tongue and down his throat. He can taste the iron and smell the sulfur as if it were right in front of him despite months of abstinence. The pit in his stomach is howling, begging, and clawing to be fed, whispering in his mind: _you know you want this you need this why fight this?_ His breaths are coming out faster now; his heart is practically vibrating. It hurts (so much, too much) but Sam keeps his mouth shut firmly. He will not cry out for Dean; he will deal with this like a man (he says from his fetal position on the floor). (And what would Dean think to find Sam curled up on the cold ground? He’d be disgusted.)

 It would be so easy, he can’t help but think as the beads of sweat roll down his face, to just get up and walk out that door, to find an unsuspecting demon milling about the city. It would be so easy to take the knife that’s stashed away in the back of the Impala, to walk slowly behind the creature in the dark and –

“No!” Sam nearly shouts to himself. For a second, he fears that he may have woken Dean up, but his brother’s snores continue on, blissfully unaware and uninterrupted. He can’t do this, can’t want this. How _could_ he want this? After everything that Dean, Bobby, and Cas have done to keep him straight? After everything that he’d done because of it? His weakness would be like spitting in their faces after they’ve already given him so many chances. He broke the world, damn it.

Sam can’t even bring himself to wonder what they’d do if he fell off the wagon again, can’t imagine their disgusted, disappointed (but not surprised, never surprised in Sam’s mind) faces.

Sam’s hands trail their way up to his head where they latch onto his hair and scalp. Nails burrow their way into the soft, vulnerable skin. His ears are ringing, screaming at him for refusing to listen to their hungry pleas. He pulls and pulls at his hair in an attempt to do something, anything, to keep the cries away, but it’s useless. He hears them, every last taunt and memory, everything he’s done wrong and every reminder of what he is –

_Sam, of course, is an abomination._

_If I didn’t know you, I would want to hunt you._

_Listen to me, you blood sucking freak…_

 – a monster. That’s what he is. And no one, not even himself, will let him forget it. He doesn’t deserve to forget.

With the soft light of the moon streaming down onto him like a spotlight, Sam begs for the mercy he knows he doesn’t deserve. He begs, with all his strength, to be let off the ride that he put himself on the first time Ruby offered up her arm. He pulls and rocks and silently cries as he sits, alone in the dark – Dean and Bobby fast asleep in other rooms.

Sam doesn’t know how long he sits there, listening to his Greatest Hits on repeat, loud and clear without end in sight. His hands are still tangled in his knotted mess of hair, but his eyes are dry and his body still. His heart is pounding, the cacophonous noise of his pulse pounding in his ear alongside the taunts of _freak_ and _demon_.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Is that his heart or footsteps coming nearer and nearer?

Thump. Thump. Thump.

No, definitely footsteps, carrying their owner closer to his huddled mess on the kitchen floor with each stride. His heart picks up in tempo; they’ll see him, see the disaster that is Sam Winchester, the ex-blood junkie who isn’t even (will never even be) an ex.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

 Is it Dean? No, his snores still echo through the house; he’s still asleep. The footsteps have stopped and Sam can practically feel the presence looming over him.

Oh God, no. Please no, not now.

“Sam.”

He knows that voice.

Cas. He wants to croak out: _yep, it’s me!_ But when he opens his mouth, no sound comes out. He wants to cry out at the injustice of the angel having to see him like this. Except, it isn’t injustice, is it? This is justice, for the world he broke. If he can’t fix it, Sam figures, then punishment is the next step.

This pain and humiliation will make him good again.

A hand is placed over Sam’s, gently pulling them away from his scalp. Sam tries to fight it – he _deserves_ this pain, after all. How can he learn to be good if he doesn’t have this?

Sam knows what he must look like. The spectacle he must make. He imagines the sneer that must be on Castiel’s face, the look of disgust and disappointment. _How pathetic_ , the angel will say, _how weak_. _You can’t even control yourself when there isn’t a drop of red in sight_.

I know, he whimpers in his mind. And he does; he really does know. He knows how pitiful he is, how repulsive he is for craving it. He knows how lucky he is that Dean even trusts him again to have his back during hunts.

Sam supposes that it’s all over now, though, that tentative peace between himself and Dean. Surely Cas will go and tell Dean exactly what is going on in the kitchen, tell him where his little brother is hiding instead of facing his problems like a man.

Will they lock him in the panic room again, or will they skip that step altogether? After all, monsters only get so many chances.

And judging by the gnawing in his stomach and the sweat beading along his forehead, he is as monstrous as they come. He sits, head still between his knees as he waits for Cas’ inevitable ridicule, smiting, lecture, _something_.

But Castiel does none of that.

What he does do, is stand. His hand doesn’t move from its spot on Sam’s head. The warm, heavy weight simply stays in place while the man (the angel) it belongs to stands over him. He says nothing, eyes locked firmly on the darkened room before them. Sam’s lungs are straining with the effort to keep up and his head is swimming, but the fingers splayed out over his scalp are warm and firm, easing the pain and damage caused by Sam’s own nails.

Sam’s eyes close and all that’s left in the world is the barely-there sensation of his hair being stroked and Dean’s chainsaw snores.

It’s not enough, though, to cleanse the metallic tang off of this tongue, to calm the roaring thirst that’s tearing at his chest and mind, screaming at him to throw the angel aside and find what he wants. What a sight he must be to Castiel, the clear part of his mind thinks. He’d probably wandered into the house, wanting nothing more than a place to rest.

Instead, he got Sam. Instead, he got a quivering mess on the floor, a man who can’t get up on his feet and deal with his problems. Instead, he has to stand and prevent Sam from damaging himself – after all, Sam can’t fix his mess if he’s too injured right?

_How pathetic,_ he thinks to himself _, sniveling like a child. You did wrong. Own up to it._

His breathing is growing faster, faster, and faster and faster, and he can’t stop, God he can’t stop. He wishes Cas didn’t have to see this, didn’t have to explain to Dean how his brother died on the kitchen floor, huddled around himself like a child. His head is spinning, round and round and around it goes (where it stops, nobody knows…)

He throws his head back and nearly cries out when it makes the spinning worse. Cas’ hand is still pressed against his skin, unmoving. He wants to scream at Castiel to leave, to walk away and leave him on the dirty ground. He wants to shout: _how can you stand to touch me?_ _To_ look _at me?_

“When I was young,” Cas says suddenly, startling Sam out of his thoughts. His voice is low, barely more than a whisper, “at the dawn of my creation, I was curious. Foolish, really. When I was created, there was nothing but the heavens and a few Pagan gods and goddesses. But there were whispers of plans – things bigger than any of us could imagine. My siblings whispered among themselves that God planned to create balls of fire and hydrogen and helium; what they were for, no one knew. We were told to stay far away. But I was young and so curious – too much so for my own good. So one day, for a lack of a better English term, I snuck away from the watchful eyes of the host and followed an older brother. Sometimes I wonder if our Father hadn’t intended for that to happen.

“They had only journeyed to record that the objects were forming like our father had planned and left almost as soon as they got there. But I stayed. And I watched, one by one as the stars appeared in grand, silent bursts of color and light. I witnessed as the cosmos formed in a fiery explosion, as space that had once been filled with chaos and darkness, illuminated and filled…”

Cas’ voice never wavers as he tells his story, staying low, barely more than a murmur. And as Sam listens, one by one each voice, each hand clawing from the inside is silenced and calmed. Sam drifts off to the steady strokes through his hair and gravely sounds of Cas’ tale. Somehow – and Sam will never be able to explain how – the side of Sam’s face finds itself pressed against Cas’ pant leg. His hands are still clenched, nails biting into the soft flesh, but with each passing moment, they ease.

“And then a voice rang down to those few, precious humans: ‘This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.’ It was an interesting scene to watch, to see how humans worship and celebrate heaven. I never knew Jesus personally, but my siblings always spoke highly of Him. Which, I suppose, is ironic seeing as they all hate humanity...

“…it was a difficult thing to witness. The actual sight of it was not terribly unsettling, more a great deal of light. But, to feel a sibling’s Grace be ripped away like that, to feel their sudden absence in your mind, is…

“…and why do you suppose that humans insist on labeling their newborn infants by color? Is it for organizational purposes? Though it seems to carry through into adulthood. Dean seemed particularly insulted when he sent me for socks – he insisted that the ones I brought were pink, but they were _clearly_ a shade of Cerise…:

He continues like that for hours, with Sam’s temple pressed against the stiff fabric of Jimmy Novak’s slacks.

He tells Sam about distant kingdoms, both ancient and modern. He tells him about the deaths of Oda Nobunaga and Haile Selassie, of humanity’s first attempts at farming. He tells him about his favorite heaven, about the tower of Babel, about the invention of ice cream and coffee and hot dogs, about how he watched Anna fall, and of the fear he felt when he was tasked as head of a garrison.

And all the while, his hand never leaves its spot, fingers tangled in the soft mess of Sam’s hair. Eventually, the stories die down, and the two are left in the comforting silence and darkness of the early morning. One sitting and one standing over, watching, guarding.

If he had the breath, Sam would snort at the situation. How lowly Cas must think of him now. Who is he to deserve the protection of an angel – even if they are on the same side? Sam stares at the grimy tiles beneath him. He traces the pattern with his eyes, prolonging the contact, the soft, comforting touch. When was the last time he felt something like this?

Probably the last time he deserved it.

So, a long, long time ago.

He doesn’t want to move away, wants to stay in this position forever. Forget Lucifer, forget the apocalypse and just stay here. There’s a warmth in Sam’s stomach, one that’s quieted and replaced the usual cold hunger, one that he only ever experienced during his time at Stanford (before he killed Jessica). He doesn’t want to – he _can’t_ – let this go.

He doesn’t deserve it; God he knows he doesn’t deserve it. But please, God _please_ don’t take this away. Pleaseohpleaseoh –

Sam pushes himself off the dirty floor and Castiel’s hand falls to the side.

He fixes his eyes on Cas’ tie, unable to make eye contact after the spectacle he made of himself. “Thanks Cas. Sorry you uh, sorry you had to see that. Probably not how you wanted to spend your night, huh?”

Cas’ eyes narrow slightly. “Seeing you in pain is uncomfortable, yes,” he replies, “but I am happy to help.” He sighs and drops his gaze to the floor, to the same pattern of once-white tile that Sam had started at not a minute ago. “I can’t heal you from this Sam,” he says. His voice is thick and trembles slightly. “I wish I could, but it is beyond my power. Your cravings, your pain. I’m sorry.”

Sam forces out: “s’okay, Cas, I deserve it. This is just hubris, right?  This is what I get for being so stupid, for trusting Ruby.” He laughs once. It’s short and harsh, no trace of humor. “We shall reap that which we sow, and all that, right? I mean, Dean already, uh, _vented_ to me, so I guess this was your chance.”

Cas’ head snaps back up. Sam expected to see amusement there and was surprised to instead see hurt, shock. Cas’ eyes are wide, mouth ajar. “Is that what you think Sam?” He shakes his head slowly and walks even closer than they were before. Sam can practically feel the angel’s breath caress his face with each exhale. Cas’ hand reaches up, oh so tentatively, and comes to rest at the base of Sam’s jaw. His hand is soft, much softer than Sam figured an angel’s would be. “Do you really think that you deserve punishment for this? Sam I did not come to watch you suffer; I came because I heard your call, your pain. I came because you deserve _better_.”

Sam swears his heart nearly stops. His breathing does, at least.

At Castiel’s words, their first meeting rings in Sam’s ears:

_“Sam Winchester, the boy with demon blood…”_

The change between then and now is so drastic. But then again, is it really?

 Here, Castiel is standing in front of him, having held him, having comforted him during such a weak moment. Here he is, not leaving, not running to tell Dean about Sam’s sinful urges, but instead saying that Sam is worth his time? But how can he? How can Sam believe that multidimensional wavelength from God could ever see anything worthwhile in such a pathetic, unimportant human like him? One that’s barely even human as it is.

“Don’t _ever_ think that you are unimportant,” Cas hisses, his grip on Sam’s jaw becomes firm, preventing him from looking away. “You are a good man, Sam Winchester, and I failed to see that before. You are more than the boy with demon blood, than Lucifer’s vessel. Don’t you see, Sam?”

There’s thinly-veiled desperation in those words, as if he is begging Sam to understand, to hear him. And Sam is trying, really, he is trying, but all he can hear in his ringing ears is the constant litany of _monster_ , _abomination_ , _freak_.

Cas lets out a sigh, shoulders drooping a little. He’d clearly been listening in to Sam’s thoughts “Oh Samuel,” he breathes quietly, so quiet that Sam can’t be sure he heard it at all, “how I’ve wronged you.”

“No.” His voice is thick, throat tight, and eyes on fire. He tries to shake his head. But can’t, despite Cas loosening his hold. He wants to say more, to argue, to curse, to do something, but he can’t. All he can do is stand and listen.

“Sam Winchester,” Castiel says, his grip has loosened to the faintest caress, but Sam doesn’t dare move away, “it is an honor to call you my friend.”

“How? After everything I’ve done? After I started the _apocalypse_? How can you stand –”

The corners of his lips twitch, Sam thinks it’s supposed to be a smile. “Because you are my father’s creation and I love you,” Cas says simply. “Despite, or maybe even because, everything you have done and faced, I love you. If there’s anything that I have learned about humanity – about you – since falling, it’s that you try so hard to do the right thing. And that is more than admirable.”

Sam doesn’t know how to respond. So he just stands in silence. Their eyes meet and despite the clear height advantage, Sam feels like a child again, small and afraid. His cheeks aren’t red, but he knows the angel can tell exactly how he is feeling.

“Thanks Cas,” he somehow finally manages out.

Castiel smiles sadly. “You don’t believe me.”

Sam laughs; it’s a short, breathy sound. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Don’t be sorry, Sam. That blame falls on myself and your brother.” Cas looks down at his feet quickly before starting back up at Sam. “I wish…I wish that there was a way to make you believe me, but…I am aware that I have simply wronged you too much. But – just, please, remember these words. It’s not blame that falls on you, Sam; it’s destiny.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

“Please do.”

They stand in silence like that, just staring, neither willing to break the calm first. The silence isn’t awkward, though. There’s an acceptance there between them, something that Sam hasn’t felt in a long time. There’s sincerity in the angel’s eyes, a tilt to his lips, and a softness to his features. Even if Sam doesn’t believe the words Cas is saying, Cas truly does. Perhaps that – that faith (and Sam is giddy just thinking about it; an angel has faith in him?) is what is causing the lightness in Sam’s chest.

“Sam,” Cas suddenly murmurs, quiet, so as to not break the peace, “you say that _you_ started the apocalypse, correct?”

And there it goes. Sam swallows down the hurt, the lump that has grown in his throat so quickly. “Yeah Cas. But – but I’m gonna fix it!” he practically begs, “Dean and I, we’re gonna fix, so don’t worry. I don’t know how, but we will.”

“I have full confidence in you, Sam,” Cas states as if this is a fact, maybe to him it is, “it may be too late, but I do. After all ‘ _the righteous man who begins it, is the only one who can finish it._ ’”

He lets go of Sam’s face with a small smile and a nod, before disappearing, leaving nothing behind but the sound of rustling wings and a shocked Sam.

Sam shudders out a deep breath. The sun is starting to rise, now, breaking through the darkness with reds, oranges, and yellows. A loud groan and the rustling of blankets signal to Sam that Dean is not awake. The time on his phone reads: 5:41am. He is not going back to sleep any time soon.

Dean shuffles into the kitchen, blissfully unaware of the exchange that passed between his little brother and a fallen angel. Sam smiles and turns to the coffee maker that Dean is blindly searching (well, not really, but Sam’s not giving him a beer at 5am). After a few minutes, the warm aroma of roasting beans fills the room. Sam pours himself and his brother a cup, turning around to hand it to him. There’s more than enough left for Bobby when he eventually stumbles in.

Dean accepts the cup with only a little grumbling.

He freezes, though, coffee cup just centimeters from his face, when his eyes land on Sam. He gives him a long once-over, lingering on the dark bruises under Sam’s eyes. “Dude,” he says, finally, removing the cup from his lips, “you look like crap. You good? ”

Sam stares at him. Sam’s head is still pounding and his eyes burn. The current under his skin isn’t gone – will probably always be there – and though he’s beaten it down, the thirst and hunger are still fighting for control. He’s a mess, an exhausted, probably sweaty and gross, mess. And he’s likely never going to be _okay_.

But he thinks of Cas’ words, the sincerity in his eyes.

The corner of his lips lifts nearly imperceptibly. “Yeah, Dean,” he says, “yeah I’m good.”

**Author's Note:**

> Some fun things to note:  
> 1)In case you didn't know, Oda Nobunaga was a Japanese samurai warlord in the 16th century. Look this guy up, he's pretty cool.  
> 2)Apparently, Castiel (or Cassiel) is known for watching the creation of the cosmos. So naturally, I had to throw that in there.  
> 3) The second story Cas tells is of Jesus' baptism (Matthew 3:13-17)


End file.
